Whereas the other hotels on our trip served breakfast
from 7:00 to 11:00, breakfast here at the Hotel d'Argouges
went only until 10:00. And the night before we had decided
against a day trip to Caen (which would require an early
departure on the train) and against a bus tour to the
Normandy beaches (since the buses all left early, too).
Instead we slept in. We were only now beginning to catch our
breath from the jet lag and the hard-travelling days, so
sleeping in sounded mighty fine.

We took our time in the morning. Although the sun came up
early and the birds in the garden outside our window started
to sing loudly before any light was creeping thru the curtains,
we did sleep in late.

And when we finally wandered down to breakfast, we were
the only ones in the dining room except for Geoff and Beryl.
They had brought their car over the Channel on the ferry
from England. She was a retired midwife, he a retired engineer.
And when I mentioned it looked like we were cutting it close for
breakfast, she didn't think so. The time felt luxurious to her.

We chatted for a while in that room that everyone else had
long since left. We talked about travelling -- by car and
by train. (They seemed fascinated that we were looping thru
the northwest by train.)

We talked about the cost of going to school. (They
lamented that things are now so bad that British students must
take out loans instead of getting outright grants.)

We talked about painting. That is how she spends her time,
now that she is retired. (Ben tried to tell them that I am
an artist, too.)

And we talked about places to go. (They were going to St. Malo
soon. We highly recommended Rouen, images of which were still
warm in our memory.)

And then we all stood up to go, as the hotel staff
came in to wordlessly remind us that the hour was passed. We said
goodbye and that perhaps we would see each other later that day.

We went on a little adventure on the way home from the restaurant
tonite. At least those were the instructions to Ben. Take us on
an adventure. You choose where to go. So he took us on a longer
walk back to our hotel overlooking the garden.

And with the town now quiet after the hubbub of the day, and with
the 10:30pm sun setting the clouds on fire against a pastel blue
sky, we walked thru a quiet, sleepy neighborhood sitting at the top
of the hill.

Bayeux is an old city, a medieval city. But this was not a
neighborhood of narrow streets and old stone buildings. It was a
slice of modern day France: new houses and duplexes with small,
immaculately tended suburban gardens and even two dogs in a fenced-in
yard.

Just beyond the top of the hill, we turned the corner at the Lycée
and walked by a shop named L'Amour de Chien where we took a picture
of a happy Trudy. And we turned another corner on the main street
that we had climbed earlier in the day with our luggage toted behind
us. And we headed back down to the hotel, where Trudy crashed first
and then Ben (after his compulsory page in his journal -- no more of
this two or three sentences stuff).

And now I am at the end of my story. The electric pink and blue sky
has turned to black. The garden is barely visible outside the window.
And the adventure is done.

It was after 7:00pm: dinner time. It had taken us a while to
find this place, an effort that seemed to decorate every evening
with frustration for me. But when we wandered up to the door of
this place and looked over their menu posted at the door, we all
three decided that this was the place.

We sat in a booth near the window. There was another family in the
booth next to us: a father, a mother, and two high-school age boys.
But the place was dark and the sounds were slightly muffled, so we
hadn't really noticed them.

Excuse me! shouted one of the boys. The sound was not muffled.

The waiter turned around. Though as for that, he didn't look so
much like a waiter but rather had an innkeeper look about him. And
this was a very tavern-y looking place.

Water! the boy shouted again.

The waiter seemed confused, not understanding the English perhaps or
more likely in stunned reaction to the shouted commands.

The boy's father spoke quietly, in the manner of a teacher instructing
a pupil. He spoke with a very American accent.

D'eau, he said. Un verre d'eau.

Doh! the boy shouted.

Ah... une carafe d'eau, the waiter said.

Yes, doh! the boy shouted.

I wanted to shrink into my seat. I wanted to speak French with as
non-American an accent as I could muster. I wanted to become invisible.

I am sure there were many times during the trip when the three of us fit
the most stereotypical of American stereotypes. I wore jeans most of the
way. Ben wore his running shoes and usually had a T-shirt on. We
struggled with the basics of living in France (finding food, making change).
So I would do well to hold my tongue, which I shall.

But this much I know. We did at least know not to shout. And we did
try hard to stick to French. And we did know how to say S'il vous
plait and Merci. So I was horrified at the impression this family was
leaving with the waiter (and everyone else in the place).

So when we asked for the bill later in the evening, I made sure to say
Merci, monsieur in my best possible accent. And I do believe that he
and I made a brief connection -- that all Americans don't behave like
that -- when I mouthed another Merci from the door just before we left.